


Between Love and Death

by sneakronicity



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: trope_bingo, F/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 21:43:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneakronicity/pseuds/sneakronicity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All angels have a purpose when they are sent to earth, whether to bring life, love or death to the human inhabitants.  This is a glimpse at two such angels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Love and Death

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Trope Bingo prompt "wingfic", though I went full AU angel fic on this puppy. Characters ultimately are not mine.

He spotted her across the crowd and that familiar mixture of joy and trepidation settled within him.  The last time he had seen her had been very bittersweet, and looking at the chaos that lay between them he wondered if this was to be a repeat occasion.  
  
On this earth, among the humans, he went by the name of Clint, and to them he was nothing extraordinary.  They could bump into him, speak with him, and only minutes after parting from him he was almost entirely forgotten.  It was all part of the deal; blend in, go unnoticed, and whatever you do don’t draw attention to yourself.  That was the code angels lived by, for if people started to look too close the plain façade might waver and show the true beauty hidden beneath.  
  
All angels were beautiful, too much so for mere humans to handle without having a disastrous effect.  After seeing the face of true beauty everything else pales in comparison and life becomes a quest for even the tiniest glimpse of that heaven once again.  Even though Clint was an angel he understood this desire as he felt something similar the first time he met her, mortal name Natasha.    
  
She was… he had not yet found a human word to describe her that could do her justice.  All angels had an ethereal glow around them, but the red of her hair was so bright that the glow gave the illusion of a fire burning brighter than any flame should ever burn.  Her skin was alabaster, and her wings black as the deepest, darkest night with tips as red as blood.  Through it all, though, it was her eyes that haunted him, eyes that had seen so many hardships, so much pain, that they could only belong to an Angel of Death.  
  
Their last meeting, as already stated, was bittersweet, for their mark had been the same.  Clint had acted first, an Angel of Love, Cupid come to life.  His mark lay bleeding in an alley, the victim of a mugging turned violent, a single bullet lodged deep in the man’s stomach.  Clint could not help him, could not interfere, he just had to let nature run its course, so he drew his bow and fired a single arrow, invisible to all mortals, straight at the man’s heart.    
  
For a moment the angel with the shimmering lavender wings thought perhaps it would be a new beginning for this man… then Natasha emerged from the shadows and all hope faded.  She knelt before the prone body, her majestic wings surrounding it, and when she stepped back a single feather remained on the now still breast, as invisible as Clint’s arrow.  The man had only realized he was in love with the last few beats of his heart; the tragedy of it was almost overwhelming.  Clint was so used to spreading love and joy that death always hit him hard.  Sensing his grief, Natasha took his hand and beckoned him with a simple “come.”  
  
They took to the sky, leaving behind the sights and sounds of the city to a place where the lights weren’t so bright and the stars shown clearly overhead.  They settled on a high hill, sitting side by side, and when Clint folded his wings behind him Natasha spread her own and enveloped him, pulling him in close.    
  
For a long moment they sat there in silence, taking comfort in the contact and the presence of each other.  Finally the still air was broken by Clint’s voice.  “How do you do it?”  
  
“It is what I was meant for,” Natasha answered without hesitation.  She was an instrument of death, it was her calling, and she carried it out as anyone else would their own profession.  
  
“Doesn’t it bother you?” he asked, tilting his head up, his blue eyes studying her expression.  
  
She contemplated his question.  “It is not always so unwanted,” she said, meeting his eyes.  “To some death is a release and they welcome me and are grateful I have come for them.”  
  
He nodded at the explanation and settled his head upon her shoulder once more.  Things were never so cut and dry, black and white, life and death… _love_ and death.  
  
“And is it always so joyous for you?” Natasha’s voice cut the silence again, her wings shifting gently around them.    
  
“No,” Clint admitted, frowning to himself.  “Not all love is welcome.  Sometimes it is unrequited or comes too late, sometimes it is forbidden, and of the others it often doesn’t last.  I just never see that part. I'm only there for that first moment, for the acknowledgment that what they feel is love, and most of the time, yes, it is joyous.”  
  
When he looked at Natasha again she wore the softest smile he had ever seen, one so wistful his heart ached and he knew there had never before been a sight so beautiful yet so sad.  
  
“I would like to experience that sometime,” she spoke quietly, almost guiltily, as if she had no right to want for such a thing.  
  
Clint didn’t even think about it, didn’t hesitate before offering.  “Come with me next time.  Tomorrow.  I’ll show you.”  
  
She studied him a long time, as if unsure what to make of this opportunity.  Finally she agreed with a simple “Okay,” and he felt his heart leap.  Angels are not supposed to love as humans do, but leave it to an Angel of Love to go against the norm and fall anyway.  Angels do, though, require rest, so as a comfortable silence fell over them again, wrapped up warm within her wings, Clint drifted slowly off.  
  
When he awoke from his slumber the next morning he was alone. 

Three weeks had passed since that day, but as he gazed upon Natasha he felt no anger.  He watched her move with unnatural grace, her motions fluid like water, like poetry.  She stepped back and extended her wings and for a moment he marveled that nobody looked at her, but nobody could see her as he did.  Her wings shuddered, the feathers rippled, and when they folded upon themselves again she held a single feather in her hand, ebony and blood red.  She held it balanced upon her palm before releasing a puff of air that lifted it upwards.  It floated above the crowd, above the world, before falling slowly and erratically downward to rest upon the chest of her mark, the victim of a hit and run.  As sad as it was, Clint was relieved when the woman took her last breath; they didn’t share the same mark.    
  
Looking back to where Natasha had stood he felt his heart sink to find the spot empty.  She was gone.  He hadn’t even gotten to speak a word to her and she was gone.  Closing his eyes he tried not to feel the weight of such disappointment, he tried to focus on his own task at hand, and when he suddenly felt fingers threading through his feathers his eyes snapped open and he turned his head abruptly.  She stood beside him wearing a warm smile and he couldn’t help but return it.  
  
“I know I’m late, but does that offer still stand?” she asked and he could only nod vigorously, his ability to speak having left him for a moment.  He didn’t have to explain it to her, she knew where their power lied, and with her hands already upon his wings he drew his bow and arrow.  Forcing his eyes back to the crowd he finally spotted them, a couple huddled close together, a pink aura surrounding them both.  Adding a second arrow to the first he drew them both back at once and with a final glance at Natasha who was watching, enthralled, he let the arrows fly.  They soared through the crowd, seeming to weave among the people while keeping on a straight path.  They both struck home and the couple realized how short life was, how the woman who had died before their eyes could have been either of them.  The thought of losing each other was enough of a push to recognize what they felt for one another was not a trifle but love.  
  
As the couple embraced, expressing their love truthfully for the first time, Clint felt Natasha’s fingers tighten in his feathers.  Turning his gaze back to hers he saw tears shimmering in her eyes and could not resist touching her cheek softly.  
  
“Thank you,” she said and he smiled.    
  
Reaching down to take her hand instead, he gave it a gentle tug.  “Come,” was all he said.  
  
They walked away from the scene, hand in hand, and to the human eye they appeared to be like any other couple in the city.  Mortals could not see how their wings seemed to blend together to create a colour that was indescribable, and so bright it was almost blinding.  
  
Just because angels were not meant to love did not mean it never happened.  Every rule has an exception.


End file.
